


Amazing, Isn't It?

by WriteThroughTheNight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock has emotions!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteThroughTheNight/pseuds/WriteThroughTheNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John, Sherlock's faithful blogger, Sherlock's best friend, Sherlock's only friend, was in danger. John was in pain. John was scared. And Sherlock, Sherlock, was helpless. And he despised it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing, Isn't It?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on transferring all my fics from fanfic.net onto archive before I post anything new, so bear with me I suppose! All mistakes are my own as I have no beta. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes did not feel emotion. He prided himself on his ability to remain distant from that silly pastime. Caring, after all, was not an advantage. That was a fact. And Sherlock did love his facts.

Yet, here the consulting detective was, standing in a grubby alleyway in London, emotion thwarting his brain, ravaging his mind palace. It was despicable.

He felt his accelerated heartbeat, felt the perspiration forming on his brow. Sherlock Holmes felt it, and Sherlock Holmes hated it. But there was nothing to be done. The hated emotion was doomed to stay with him until this particularly alarming situation was resolved. At least, that's what John had informed him during one of the Doctor's lectures on sentiment. Dull.

Said Doctor was the cause of Sherlock's current frustration, the root of it. Years ago, Sherlock would have hardly winced at the sight of someone pressed against a murderer, knife at their throat. Now, oh now, Sherlock trembled at the sight. Bloody John. He never stopped wiggling his way into Sherlock's thoughts. The man really was insufferable.

Insufferable as he was, it would be fruitless to deny the consequences a vulnerable John had on Sherlock. Useless really. Sherlock's thoughts, his senses, his mind, were bombarded by them. Even John, blissfully ordinary John, could make the deduction that Sherlock was panicking. Even Anderson, ANDERSON, would have been able to clearly observe it. But, John was the only one who mattered; now, and forever.

John, Sherlock's faithful blogger, Sherlock's best friend, Sherlock's only friend, was in danger. John was in pain. John was scared. And Sherlock, Sherlock, was helpless. And he despised it.

It had seemed an entirely dull, monotonous case. Hardly a 4. Open and shut gang murder. Committed by a rather pathetic gang, in Sherlock's opinion. They were sloppy enough in their cover up, after all. But, Sherlock had been bored, horribly, horribly, bored. The last case that had held even a semblance of an interest for the genius was weeks ago, weeks! Mrs. Hudson had threatened to throw him out if he shot her wall one more time. So, when Lestrade had requested Sherlock run down the culprit, he had accepted.

(John would have forced him anyway. Some ridiculous notion of fresh air. The air inside the flat was no different than the molecules of said substance outside! Honestly, with all the cleaning Mrs. Hudson got up to, the inside air was most likely fresher than the outside air!)

So, to appease John, Sherlock had agreed. And now, because Sherlock had relented, because Sherlock complied with somebody else's wishes, John was in danger. Unacceptable.

Sherlock had put out his homeless network to locate the man. It was a remarkably simple task, as he was quite an infamous felon. Less than an hour had unearthed the name of one of their suspect's frequent haunts, and Sherlock and John had set off immediately.

They had been spotted, however. The man was cleverer than Sherlock had given him credit for. He had taken flight through the back alleys, an obvious attempt to throw the detective. The killer assumed that Sherlock didn't know the back passages of London well. As if. Sherlock knew them better than any criminal in the city. The suspect had been quick of foot; catching up with him seemed the only problem in his capture. It wasn't.

The man had thrown something back, the lid of a garbage can, perhaps, and Sherlock had been caught off guard. He had crashed to the pavement, head cracking painfully on the muddy ground. Unfortunately, his nest of brown curls hadn't done much to soften the blow. No cut opened on impact. At worst, Sherlock had determined, he would have a ghastly bump. Not too bad.

John had halted immediately, attention focused solely on Sherlock. After all, John was prone to bothersome sentiment, so it was no great surprise. Sherlock had waved him off, told him to catch back up with the suspect. He would catch up. Shooting Sherlock a doubtful look, John had complied.

And now, now, Sherlock was regretting that. He found himself wishing that he had just told John to let the man get away. Ordered John to stay. Sherlock hated this particular emotion, regret. Guilt. It was tedious.

But, he couldn't dwell on that now. No. He had to help John. There was no other alternative; he would get John out of this alive. But, if only John would stop looking so vulnerable!

Said man's face was scrunched in pain, eyes closed against the apparently overwhelming sensation. Blood dribbled from a gash near John's hair line, matting John's blond hair with red. Sherlock's gut twisted. That wasn't that extreme, oh no. The men, after all, had each gotten their fair share of head wounds. This one wasn't particularly extraordinary. No. The look on John's face was the bad bit, the thing that was ruthlessly tormenting Sherlock.

Because, the men had been injured before, John more frequently than Sherlock. But, John was a soldier; he didn't show his agony to Sherlock. Not once had the man even shown Sherlock some resemblance to weakness. Now, said man could hardly stand.

John's shoulder was dislocated. Sherlock had noticed that immediately as he swerved around the corner. His left shoulder. The shoulder that had been shot.

That alone would cause the army doctor considerable pain. Having a shoulder dislocated was excruciating, especially when one remained conscious throughout the entire event. (And John would have done no less.)But, to have a previously damaged shoulder dislocated? The pain would be indescribable. So, Sherlock could not fault John for putting him through this torture. He probably couldn't help those pathetic whimpering sounds he was making. Even if he could, Sherlock wasn't supposed to feel. John probably assumed Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the sound. If only he knew.

The suspect was talking, nonsensical demands that Sherlock couldn't grant. Just the sound of the man's voice was irritating. It grated on Sherlock's nerves. He had never hated a voice so much. Never hated someone so much as he did in that instant.

The man was hurting John. As if dislocating his shoulder wasn't enough, the man was casually twisting the arm back and forth behind John's back. He pulled it back sharply to enunciate some of his words as he spoke, and used it to tug John closer against him. John remained stubbornly conscious, and Sherlock wished he would simply black out. No one deserved that torture. Especially not John. Sherlock's John.

The knife pressed to John's throat tensed and pressed marginally closer. A small cut appeared, and a small stream of blood began to flow from the wound. It hadn't damaged the jugular. But, it was close. Too close.

"…And if you don't do exactly as I say, Mr. Holmes, your buddy here will suffer the consequences." As if to verify the words that Sherlock had just began paying attention to, the murderer gave a particularly brutal twist to John's arm.

The sickening sound of shattering bone echoed through the alleyway. John shouted hoarsely in pain, eyes flashing open. Distressed blue eyes searched for Sherlock's, latching on intensely. Desperation passed from John's eyes to Sherlock. They understood each other. John's silently mouthed please was unnecessary. Sherlock knew he needed help. Knew it, but was unable to provide. God, did he hate it.

"Oops! Did I happen to break his clavicle? Yeah, not so much of an idiot now, am I? I know exactly how to maximize your little buddy's pain levels; there's a reason I'm the gang's interrogator. I'm invaluable." The man offered a sinister smile. There was something off about the smile, something wrong. It was the broken smile, of a broken man. Because, it was the only justification of the man in front of him, he had been broken. The shards when put back together had formed an incomplete man, one who was dangerously deranged.

"You know, their murder shouldn't have had this effect on you. It would have been displeasing to them. They always loved you so. No family would want this for their son." Sherlock drawled lazily, thoughtlessly. A small part of his brain was amazed at the steadiness of his voice. He was startled that he could comment on something as irrelevant as this when John was hurting. When John was being tortured. In front of Sherlock.

He acknowledged as an afterthought that perhaps antagonizing the man that held John's life in his greasy hands was unproductive. The man's momentary hurt, however, was worth it. God, how Sherlock wanted to hurt the man.

Face darkening first in surprise, and then in anger, the killer spit viciously at Sherlock, inadvertently twisting John's arm in the process. John reacted only with a sharp exhale. He had to be nearly numb with pain by now. Sherlock hoped he was nearly numb with pain.

"How do you know about them? They're dead, what they think doesn't matter anymore. So just shut up." The man spoke quickly, leaving Sherlock no time to reply to his dull question. John was the only one allowed to ask for an explanation, and not be held with contempt. The last part of the criminal's rant sounded distinctly childish. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man. They were only a few yards away from each other in the alleyway. The action was clearly visible, and the man didn't like Sherlock's attitude.

John's arm received yet another vicious twist for Sherlock's actions. It sickened Sherlock, knowing that John, his John, was being injured because of Sherlock. It was wrong.

They were at a standstill. The man's grip on John was unwavering. The glare he was giving Sherlock was resolute. There was no way out.

Sherlock was wrong.

And, god, did he hate being wrong; but, just this once, he would make an exception. In fact, Sherlock had never been so glad to be wrong in his entire life.

The resolution to the situation was abrupt. Sherlock, distracted as he was, was oblivious to the shadow slowly creeping up behind the suspect who held John. The man himself was unaware of the specter that lurked only several yards behind him, cloaked in the shadows that back-London provided. He was too busy staring Sherlock down, torturing his best friend in the process. He did become aware, quite suddenly. It was perhaps the last thing he was ever aware of.

A wooden board, dotted with rusty old nails, smacked down on the top of the man's head. His knees immediately gave out, and he staggered back from John. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, impaling himself with his own weapon. Blood spurted from the man's stomach, but the wound did no damage. The man was already dead.

And Sherlock had never been so glad.

After he finished dealing with John, he would ask around, find which member of his homeless network had taken care of the man. Because, Sherlock was aware enough through the emotions to see that the Samaritan had fled.

But, Sherlock had something else on his mind at the moment. As soon as the criminal had removed his support, John collapsed. Almost as if subconsciously acknowledging the diminuendo of danger, he immediately lost consciousness as soon as the criminal's slimy hands released him. John would have been doomed to a painful collision with the dirty pavement, if not for Sherlock.

Because Sherlock was never going to let John fall.

Lanky arms cradled the shorter man, and those dreaded emotions overwhelmed Sherlock again. He pressed his face down into John's hair, inhaling the scent. A rush of warmth, of comfort, filled him. Sherlock wasn't letting John go again. Ever.

With his free hand, Sherlock flipped open his mobile phone, and dialed his brother. Undoubtedly, Mycroft was the fastest route to John's treatment. Mycroft could have an ambulance at the site in seconds. Their petty feud could be put to rest for a couple minutes. John mattered more than stolen action figures. John mattered more than childhood taunting.

"Oh God. What did you do this time little brother?" Mycroft's voice sneered over the line. Sherlock unconsciously grimaced at the sound of My's voice. Perhaps putting aside their dislike was not that simple.

John stirred uncomfortably in Sherlock's arms, a faint whimper escaping him. His good arm clutched at Sherlock's shirt, clinging to him like a life line. Even unconscious, John felt safe in Sherlock's arms. Hm. Document for further study.

"I need an ambulance, use your cameras to locate us. I-I'm not quite sure where we are at the moment." This realization halted Sherlock in his tracks. He always knew where he was. He knew London like the back of his hand. The stupid sentiment was up to no good again. Sherlock mentally scolded himself. Bloody John. The man made Sherlock vulnerable.

"Sherlock, are you injured? What happened?" If Sherlock was not mistaken, there appeared to be actual concern in Mycroft's voice. His brother denied any relations with sentiment, but Sherlock knew the truth.

John unconsciously wiggled closer to Sherlock, miraculously sparing his shoulder pain. Sherlock's free hand began to card gently through John's blond hair. Knowing John was safe, breathing, in his arms, Sherlock let out a soft, genuine, relieved, smile. He scolded himself for the sentiment, berated himself furiously, in fact. But there was no precluding the next words that slipped from Sherlock's mouth.

"I'm fine now Mycroft. Perfectly fine."

Sherlock thanked every deity known to man that he was spared Mycroft's face. The disgust would have contorted the man's features, and Sherlock would have been treated with even more with contempt.

*

In a different part of London, Mycroft Homes ordered an ambulance for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and sent it to their location. Ending the call, he was desperately glad that his younger brother could not see his face. Sherlock should not be privy to the relieved smile on his older brother's face.

*

It's amazing that two men who deny and belittle sentiment feel it so strongly, isn't it?


End file.
